Chapter 41 Changes

"No! Arthas, don't pick up that sword!"

"This is my destiny, Jaina."

Shattered fragments of ice pierced through Jaina's magical barrier and her body, sending her crashing to the ground in a pool of blood. Arthas knelt beside her, holding the strange, eerie sword while attempting to administer a final healing spell.

Alas, it was all in vain. Ultimately, due to excessive blood loss, Jaina breathed her last breath in Arthas's arms.

Before losing consciousness and sinking into the abyss of darkness, the last words she heard were spoken by Arthas:

"I'm sorry... but I have no other choice."

—Whoosh!!

Jaina bolted upright from her bed. The silk blanket slowly slid down her body as the female mage sat propped up against the headboard, her forehead beaded with cold sweat.

"Was that... just a dream?" Jaina pressed a hand to her temples, her thoughts still lingering within the terror of the nightmare.

Did I dream of Arthas? The snowy weather and biting wind outside... Was I in Northrend with him? Where was that cave, and what on earth was that sword!

Questions rushed through Jaina's mind one after another. The dream had felt unnaturally real; Jaina could still feel the chilling agony of the shattered ice shards piercing her flesh.

Above all, what left the deepest impression on Jaina was the rune blade radiating a malevolent aura. The hollow eyes of the ram demon carved into the hilt burned with a blue flame, captivating enough to make one feel as though their soul was being sucked away.

"No... something is wrong..." Jaina draped a cloak over her shoulders and paced back and forth in the cabin. The familiar sound of ocean waves outside failed to calm her, only serving to heighten her anxiety.

In the realm of magic, such intensely vivid dreams carried significant prophetic weight. A fully powered, mentally sound Archmage would not experience such a nightmare for no reason.

Just as Jaina tried to recall the specific environmental details of the dream, she realized she had no recollection of them whatsoever. The only things she could remember were herself, Arthas, and that rune blade.

"Arthas..."

...

"Arthas, are you sure it's a good idea for us to just leave the camp like this?" Brann Bronzebeard was somewhat bewildered. He had considered himself daring enough, yet Arthas had taken a few personal guards and plunged directly into the snowy plains like this.

"Don't worry, Brann. I have a teleportation scroll that will definitely get us out of here."

"In my many years of experience, teleportation scrolls are mostly... uh, not all that reliable." What storms and trials hadn't Brann Bronzebeard seen over the course of his adventuring career? Scroll malfunctions were practically a daily occurrence.

"Don't tell me you're using old stock scavenged from Ironforge's inventory..." Arthas had never encountered a malfunctioning teleportation scroll unless the transport was forcibly locked down by someone else. But at present, very few individuals in Azeroth could pull that off, and Mal'Ganis certainly wasn't one of them.

"How can you call it old stock? It's merely a Dalaran-standard scroll from fifty years ago."

"Fifty years?! Didn't you know that teleportation scrolls of this specification have a maximum shelf life of fifteen years? I consider it an absolute miracle that you're still alive!" Upon hearing this, Arthas was utterly astonished. This professional adventurer actually dared to use magical products that had expired by over three decades?

Wasn't he afraid the scroll wouldn't completely fail, but instead transport only his upper or lower body?

Brann's weathered face flushed red as he stammered, "Ahem, the Explorers' League has been rather tight on funds lately."

"I recall the Explorers' League was founded under the initiative of King Magni. How could they be short on funds?" Arthas raised a pertinent question.

"Muradin led a team to Kalimdor for an expedition, and we discovered a massive complex of ancient ruins in the Badlands—ruins even older than those of the elves," Brann explained. "However, Dark Iron dwarves discovered the site as well, forcing our archaeological work to be suspended. A large portion of the League's treasury had to be allocated to resolving the situation there."

Ruins in the Badlands? Arthas had not expected the dwarves to have uncovered a portion of the truth of creation so early. However, this was not the time to disturb the entities slumbering within. Once he repelled the undead, eliminated those damned demons, and delayed the advance of the Burning Legion, Arthas would consider reaching out to those ancient antiquities left behind by the past.

The snowy plains of the Dragonblight seemed boundless, a world of unbroken white where only distant mountains and the skeletal remains of beasts could be seen.

"Arthas, I have a bad feeling about this," Brann noted, sensing an anomaly. "It's far too quiet here. Even for a snowy wasteland, there should be some wildlife."

*Light's Vengeance*, the warhammer chosen from the Silver Hand's armory to serve as Arthas's current weapon, differed from the *的力量 of Menethil* in that it could amplify the user's Holy Light and boost the Paladin's divine power whenever their emotions ran high.

Yet Arthas had chosen it simply because its inherent ability to amplify the Holy Light allowed it to better withstand the overwhelming intensity of his own divine power than other warhammers.

A better substitute was nowhere to be found for the time being; powerful weapons weren't cabbages growing by the roadside to be picked up at whim. Otherwise, Arthas would not have taken the risk of confronting a Dreadlord head-on just to seek out *Frostmourne*.

In retrospect, acquiring *Frostmourne* was considered a relatively low-difficulty task, since the Lich King and the Nathrezim had intended all along for the sword to corrupt Arthas, making it practically a gift delivered to his doorstep.

Brann, however, clearly did not see it that way. Ever since Arthas mentioned the abilities of *Frostmourne*, Brann had viewed the blade as a massive hazard. Yet no matter how he tried to dissuade him, Arthas insisted on seeing it for himself. To protect his friend's safety, Brann had no choice but to tag along.

After searching the snowy wastes for who knew how long—along the way, Arthas and his knights even dispatched a few wandering undead—just as they were about to reach the borders of Zul'Drak, the territorial domain of the Ice Troll empire, Arthas suddenly felt a profound throbbing in his soul.

The blizzard in Dragonblight grew abruptly fierce here, howling winds and swirling snowflakes obscuring everyone's vision until everything turned a uniform, blinding white. Brann pressed his hat down to keep the stinging snow from his face, and it was then that he heard Arthas's voice.

"We have arrived."

"Arrived? Arrived where?" Brann shouted at the top of his lungs. The whistling northern wind filled the air, and a dwarf's booming voice was precisely forged in environments like this.

"Halfway to destiny."

Arthas's response left Brann utterly baffled, but the prince gave the dwarf no time to ponder. Holding his warhammer upside down, Arthas began to wade slowly through the knee-deep snow toward the edge of the mountains, which were faintly visible through the storm.

The personal guards of the Privy Council followed closely behind him, leaving Brann with no choice but to press on as well.

Gradually, the snowfall lessened. The first thing to enter Brann's field of vision was a cave at the base of the mountains. Its pitch-black entrance yawned like a ravenous beast waiting to devour the unwary, and years of adventuring experience immediately stirred a sense of impending doom within the dwarf.

Brann hurried to catch up with Arthas, demanding anxiously, "Arthas, where is this?"

"The resting place of *Frostmourne*."

"You actually came to find this cursed sword?!" Brann's expression shifted to sheer horror. "Have you lost your mind? You know damn well there's something wrong with this blade, yet you still came?"

"Brann, once this matter is concluded, I will explain," Arthas commanded the Privy Council knights to secure the cave entrance, then turned back to the dwarf. "Are you planning to come inside with me to witness the cursed rune blade, or stay outside with them?"

Brann glanced back at the silent knights, who stood frozen like statues carved of black stone, before he sighed. "I suppose I'll go with you. Just in case anything goes wrong, I can watch your back."

What prompted Brann to risk his life this time was not his insatiable curiosity, but rather his concern for his friend and a promise; a dwarf would never abandon a friend to flee alone.

"Rest assured, nothing will happen."

Arthas's reassurance did little to ease Brann's mind. He still felt the entire affair was far too suspicious. Perhaps the moment he first heard the name *Frostmourne*, he had fallen under some unseen curse.

The two men stepped together into the dark cavern. Arthas raised a torch, illuminating the path beneath their feet.

"Hoo~" Brann's breath condensed into icy water-vapor crystals in the air. He noticed the temperature inside was drastically lower than it was outside.

Furthermore, this chill was different from ordinary freezing weather. As Brann walked a bit further, he felt even his thoughts begin to slow down—the cold seemed laced with magical influence, a realization that dawned upon Brann swiftly.

"Dark magic permeates this cave... Arthas, I'm afraid we've come to the wrong place."

Upon hearing this, Arthas enveloped Brann in a protective barrier of Holy Light. "I know. Stay close to me; my Holy Light will sustain you."

"Ha, that feels much better." Bathed in Arthas's divine protection, Brann felt his limbs and mind unfreeze, returning to peak condition.

Yet he had barely taken two steps before his nose collided squarely with Arthas's solid armor. Brann stumbled back, rubbing his face. "I think you ought to give a warning before you suddenly stop..."

"We've encountered a minor obstacle, Brann."

Halting at the edge of a precipice, Arthas raised his torch to peer down. At the lowest tier of the cave's naturally formed circular staircase, he spotted a blue, ghostly glow in the pitch darkness. Simultaneously, cluster after cluster of glowing orbs drifted along the path leading down.

Brann squinted to examine the strange glowing entities within the cave, muttering under his breath, "Are those ghosts? Are these the guardians of *Frostmourne*?"

"Regardless, we must prepare for battle, Brann."

The perpetually frozen continent of Northrend was not merely a forbidden zone for the living; it was also the threshold bridging the mortal world and the undead realm of the Shadowlands. Farther north, atop the frozen apex of Icecrown Citadel, lay the thinnest boundary between the material plane and the Shadowlands.

Drawn by the pull of the Shadowlands, the souls of the deceased across Azeroth instinctively drifted toward Northrend. Combined with *Frostmourne*'s powerful magnetic draw upon souls, a portion of spirits that ought to have passed into the Shadowlands had become trapped here.

Yet Arthas understood that the spirits haunting this place were not malevolent wraiths, nor were they guarding the cursed rune blade. Instead, they were guarding the living who dared to venture deep into this cavern.

Any living soul that entered would be driven away by them, lest the ignorant touch *Frostmourne* and fall prey to its control and curse.

Spirits possessed an inherent mystery, and the perspective of the dead differed greatly from that of the living. Consequently, they could perceive truths hidden from ordinary people—

The very first victim to be devoured by *Frostmourne* would be the first living soul to grasp its hilt.

Sensing that a significant portion of the ancient spirits lingering around the blade bore the likeness of humans, Arthas realized the ancestors of humanity had intuitively sensed something through the veil of destiny, waiting here for his arrival.

With that realization, Arthas handed his warhammer to Brann. Brann stared at him in utter bewilderment, wondering why Arthas would surrender his weapon.

" *Light's Vengeance* amplifies the Holy Light, but that also means it cannot bear another kind of power," Arthas explained, noting the confusion on the dwarf's face.

"Another kind of power?"

Brann caught the keyword in Arthas's statement and was about to press for clarification when the subsequent transformation caused Brann's pupils to constrict and every hair on his body to stand on end.

A sensation known as *Death* seemed to coil around Brann's heart, making him feel as though he were facing the ultimate crucible of life and death in all his adventuring days.

The old dwarf watched helplessly as Arthas's golden hair slowly transformed into a lifeless, stark white. A surging wave of dark magic supplanted the warm Holy Light. Under the influence of this power, even Arthas's blue-and-gold cloak began to warp, as if draped in an overlay of shifting shadows.

Brann could scarcely believe his eyes, yet every detail unfolded with terrifying reality. The dwarf gripped the warhammer tightly with both hands, his muscles tensing to their absolute limit. In a voice raspy and muffled from the back of his throat, he spoke his next words:

"You... Arthas... No, no, no! Who on earth are you?"